


Not a Pearl for his Crown

by thewightknight



Series: What We Need [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Consensual Kink, Dominance, Explicit Sexual Content, Jealousy, Light Bondage, M/M, Possessiveness, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 19:21:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5139614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewightknight/pseuds/thewightknight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m saying I was serious when I said you should show him you’re mine. You know, that whole ‘bend him over a table’ thing.” Bull’s eye grew hot, possessive. “Your ass is mine, and other people have been touching it all night. You’re right. We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him and his damned civil war. So I say teach him a lesson. You’re smart. You’ve picked up a lot from me the last few months. Time to put it into practice.” His voice softened, and he grinned, adding, “Besides, it’s not like he won’t enjoy the hell out of it. Man in his position - he’s never been topped before. Too important, too full of himself to let go. But he should have been. He needs to be. He’s practically begging for it. Go give it to him, Boss.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a Pearl for his Crown

**Author's Note:**

> If you're a regular reader, please pay attention to the tags, because this isn't my usual fare! I was imagining what might happen if you had the option to "harden" your inner circle the way you could in Origins.
> 
> [Here's Malcolm](http://thewightknight.tumblr.com/post/131855096818), for the curious.

Malcolm and Cullen started an unofficial competition. Whoever had gotten their asses pinched the most by the end of the evening owed the other a bottle of something. They’d probably end up drinking it together, though, so the loser would benefit too. Andraste’s flaming balls, he hated Orlesians.

When he told Bull about the bet, of course the Qunari laughed.

“It’s not just the ladies, either,” he complained. “Some old marquis got me on my way over.”

“What about Gaspard?” Bull asked.

“What? No. He’s just flirted, but he’s flirting with everything that moves.”

“Not like he is with you. He’s been eye-fucking you all evening, and whenever you walk past him he adjusts what’s in his pants. He’s staring at your ass right now.”

Malcolm shifted, taking advantage of one of the many mirrors hanging in the vestibule, and Bull was right. Gaspard was deep in conversation with a group of nobles, but his gaze was noticeably not focused on them. He shifted positions, tightening certain muscles, and saw a noticeable hitch in the would-be Emperor’s breathing. When he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and cocking one hip out, Gaspard’s eyes widened, and his lips stopped moving for an instant. He regained his composure and continued on with his conversation, but he was tugging on his pants leg as he turned away.

“That’s just mean, Boss.”

“What is?” Malcolm batted his eyelashes up at Bull, grinning.

“That’s even meaner. I can’t make you pay for that for hours.”

“Blame Gaspard, and every other blighter who’s bruised my bottom this evening. But especially Gaspard, because it’s his damn fault we’re here. If there wasn’t a civil war we wouldn’t have to be enduring this nonsense. We could have met with Celene without all this pussy-footing around.”

Bull grunted.

“You know, Boss, I bet you could have him bent over a table in under five minutes.”

“Wait, what?”

“Look at him. Smug bastard. He’s sure he’s won. All his people are in place and he’s just waiting for the perfect moment. By the end of the night, he’ll have finally gotten everything he’s wanted for years, and now he’s planning on making you the star of his victory celebration. He thinks you’re his already, and that’s dead wrong. You’re no one’s but mine, and I think you need to show him that. In every way possible.”

He glanced over at the mirror again, and yes, Gaspard was still staring. He shifted, moving his weight to his other leg, and watched the man’s gaze travel upwards, following his every movement. Straightening, he flexed his back muscles under pretense of stretching. His tunic was exquisitely tailored, and it strained across his back as he moved. Gaspard wasn’t even pretending to participate in the conversation happening around him anymore. When Malcolm ran his hand back through his hair, massaging the back of his neck, he drew Gaspard’s eyes even farther upwards, so he was caught flat out staring when Malcolm turned. He treated him to a sultry smile and a wink before turning back to Bull. A few seconds later, Gaspard disappeared from the mirror’s view.

“He’s walking funny now and you haven’t even touched him. I’m impressed,” Bull said.

“I haven’t messed with someone like that in, well, since you and I … well, you know.” Malcolm grinned.

“You haven’t lost your touch, Boss. The man was sweating.” Bull’s tone was congratulatory, proud even.

“I’m just going to have to make sure he doesn’t catch me alone in a room now.”

“Why’s that?” Bull asked, and Malcolm gaped in surprise.

“Well, because I just flirted shamelessly with him but I’m not going to take it any further, and his type doesn’t like to be led on and then shut down. And I’m sure Josie would be a little upset with me if I roughed up a powerful prospective ally.” Malcolm was a bit surprised he was having to explain himself. Bull always got the bigger picture faster than him, what with all that Ben-Hassrath training.

“That depends on how exactly you rough him up.” Bull’s eye twinkled.

“Are you saying I should …?” Malcolm trailed off, even more surprised and not quite believing what he was hearing.

“I’m saying I was serious when I said you should show him you’re mine. You know, that whole ‘bend him over a table’ thing.” Bull’s eye grew hot, possessive. “Your ass is mine, and other people have been touching it all night. You’re right. We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him and his damned civil war. So I say teach him a lesson. You’re smart. You’ve picked up a lot from me the last few months. Time to put it into practice.” His voice softened, and he grinned, adding, “Besides, it’s not like he won’t enjoy the hell out of it. Man in his position - he’s never been topped before. Too important, too full of himself to let go. But he should have been. He needs to be. He’s practically begging for it. Go give it to him, Boss.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Almost immediately after the announcement was made the newly crowned Emperor Gaspard dragged Malcolm into an anteroom, mouth and hands trying to be everywhere at once. He let Gaspard paw at him for a bit, then broke away, giving Gaspard his best sultry look.

“I’d prefer a bit more privacy and comfort, if you don’t mind.” It was hard to look up through your eyelashes at someone several inches shorter than you, but he managed, and Gaspard ate it up.

“My quarters. Now.” Gaspard demanded, and Malcolm let him pull him down for another sloppy kiss.

Gaspard’s guards were smirking when they emerged. Gaspard’s pants were noticeably tented, and Malcolm was sure his hair was a mess. He allowed himself to be led to the new Emperor’s quarters, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. His Excellency was in for a bit of a surprise.

When they reached the royal wing, Malcolm gestured for Gaspard to precede him into the suite. The guards took up stations on either side of the double doors as he closed them. Gaspard turned in surprise when he heard the lock turn.

Malcolm ignored him, sweeping the room, discarding options as he went. The bed was a no, of course. It wasn’t going to be that kind of tryst. The desk wasn’t wide enough or sturdy enough. Such a silly decorative thing. Ah, there was one table, pushed up against the wall between the two balconies. Bent over a table, just like Bull said. Shame the vases would probably end up in pieces on the floor, but it would be part of the fun.

Gaspard was watching him pace around the room, amused. He started tightening his circle, watching Gaspard’s amusement turn to surprise, then worry. His subconscious had realized he’d lost control of their encounter, even if the rest of him hadn’t caught up yet.

When he got within arm’s reach, he reached out, trailing a finger along Gaspard’s shoulder, letting his hand travel downwards across Gaspard’s chest as he continued to circle.

“The evening’s been going so well for you, Gaspard. All your plans have come together. Not exactly in the way you expected, true, yet it all worked out in the end. But tell me. Were you planning on making me the pearl in your crown?”

“The thought had crossed my mind, yes.” Gaspard’s voice was low, breathy, as Malcolm’s hand traveled across his hip, caressed his buttock.

"We don't need this anymore, do we?" Malcolm asked, reaching for the ties on his mask. Gaspard didn't object as he eased it off, tossing it across the room, leaning in and pressing himself against Gaspard’s back. He reached around and down, cupping and squeezing Gaspard's bulge. His breath grew ragged as Malcolm nuzzled and sucked at his neck, then cursed when Malcolm bit, not hard enough to leave a mark but not a love bite either.

“ _Merde._ What the fuck? What was that?” Gaspard demanded as he pulled away, holding a hand to his neck.

“Oh, come on, Gaspard. Don’t tell me you’ve never mixed a little pain with your pleasure?” Malcolm drawled. “Or is that you’ve always inflicted it and never received it?” He started circling again, and this time Gaspard tracked him, spinning to keep him in view. His eyes were wide, his breathing still irregular, and while he was acting outraged his interest had noticeably grown.

Malcolm stopped circling when Gaspard’s back was to the table he’d singled out, then started forward, aggressive, never breaking eye contact. From the startled look in his eyes, Gaspard hadn’t realized he’d backed up in response until he hit the edge of the table. He raised his hands up as Malcolm pressed in, a feeble attempt to keep distance between them and Malcolm grabbed his hands, forcing them down, pinning his wrists against the table’s edge. He was a bit surprised at the strength of Gaspard’s struggles. The Orlesian may have been leading armies instead of doing his own fighting for years, but he’d still stayed in better shape than his clothing had hinted at.

“What is this? Now you’ll try to kill me, and take my place?” Gaspard demanded as he tried to get free.

Malcolm still managed to keep him pinned, still managed to make it look effortless, and leaned in for another kiss, starting with the lips until Gaspard relaxed into his embrace, then moving down the jaw to the neck. He waited until Gaspard sagged into him, then bit again, not as hard this time. This time Gaspard moaned instead of swearing.

“Please,” he said in between kisses and bites. “If I’d wanted you dead I’ve have presented the evidence Briala had against you to Celene and you’d be awaiting the headman’s pleasure right now instead of about to get the fucking of your life.” Gaspard’s eyes widened, and a grunt escaped him, half pain, half pleasure, as Malcolm rolled skin between his teeth.

“Oh, that wasn’t your plan? Did you have something else in mind, Gaspard?” He didn’t wait for an answer, kissed him, hard and bruising. Gaspard struggled briefly in his grip, then surrendered, whimpering as Malcolm rubbed up against him.

He continued to alternate between sucking and biting, grinding their hips together, grinding Gaspard’s wrists into the table edge, a heady mix of pain and pleasure of which he’d previously only been on the receiving end. Gaspard had gone completely limp against him, the table the only thing holding him up. Malcolm claimed his lips again, brushing them lightly, teasing with the tip of his tongue, then pulling back. He waited until Gaspard’s eyes focused on him, then spun the man, slamming him back against the edge of the desk, pushing him down on top of it. Startled, Gaspard tried to struggle again, and Malcolm shoved him back down, one hand firm in the center of his back, and he relaxed again as Malcolm reached between his legs, fondling him.

Malcolm leaned forward, pressing himself along Gaspard’s back, pinning him to the table with his weight, and murmured in his ear. “This is how it’s going to work, my dear Emperor. I am going to do things to you.” He nipped at Gaspard’s ear. “I am going to use you. I am going to make you squirm and cry and beg. And you will beg, I promise. And the whole time you’re going to know it’s because you want it. Because it’ll be your choice. If at any point you really, truly want me to stop, you’ll tell me. Do you understand?”

He let up on the pressure, let go of Gaspard and moved back, taking several steps away. Gaspard stayed where he was for a moment, splayed out across the surface of the table, but when Malcolm didn’t continue he straightened, turned to face Malcolm, confusion plain on his face.

“What do you mean you’ll stop?” he asked.

“Rape isn’t my thing, Gaspard. I like my partners to be willing participants. But I also like things rough, and I like to be in charge.” He let his voice drop at this, and watched Gaspard’s pupils dilate. “I want to have you knowing you’ve willingly surrendered to all the things I’m going to do to you. So if at any point you want me to stop, you tell me. We’ll pick a word, and if you say that word it means it’s over.”

“You expect me to believe you’ll just stop? Walk away?”

“I’m a man of my word, Gaspard. So what do you say?” He moved forward again, reached out and ran a thumb along Gaspard’s jaw, then his lips, then letting his hand drop, wrapping it around Gaspard’s neck, squeezing lightly. Gaspard moaned, reached up, but instead of trying to remove Malcolm’s hand he covered it with his own, increasing the pressure.

Malcolm smiled. “Is that a yes?” When Gaspard nodded, he said, “I need to hear you say it.”

“Yes.” Gaspard’s answer was almost inaudible, choked out around the fingers on his neck.

“Good.” Malcolm grasped his member through his trousers, stroked up and down his length through the fabric, increasing the pressure on Gaspard’s neck just a bit more, releasing him after a few seconds.

“What is your safe word? Not something you’d say regularly.”

Gaspard cast around the room, his eyes lighting on the wall. He pointed. “Tapestry.”

“Tapestry it is. Now where were we?” he asked. “Oh, yes.” He grasped Gaspard’s shoulders, turning him. Gaspard resisted for a split second, then allowed himself to be turned and pressed downwards again. “Remember, this is my show. My rules. You don’t speak unless I ask you a question, unless it’s to say your safe word. You do as I say, or suffer the consequences. Nod if you understand.” There was a hesitation, then Gaspard nodded, his cheek rubbing against the lacquered wood. Malcolm made encouraging noises as he took Gaspard’s wrists, bringing his arms up on either side of his head, pressing them down on the table’s surface. As he did so, he felt something under the sleeves. Pulling them back revealed two daggers in sheaths strapped to the Orlesians’ forearms.

He tsk’d. “Naughty Emperor. The invitation specifically stated no weapons.”

Gaspard started to protest. “If you think I would have let myself go unarmed …”

Malcolm cut him off with a hand over his mouth. He watched as Gaspard’s eyes bulged in response, sputtering behind his hand.

“Did I give you permission to speak?” he demanded. When Gaspard continued to struggle, he forced his leg in between Gaspard’s, bringing his thigh up, not too hard. Just enough to make his eyes widen, his breath catch. “Did I?” he repeated, and Gaspard shook his head, as much as Malcolm’s grasp would allow, and stopped struggling. “Good boy.” He drew his thigh back, the friction of cloth on cloth and the sensitive skin underneath bringing forth a whimper. “We’ve barely gotten started and you’ve already broken the rules. What am I going to do with you?” He repeated the motion, rubbing back and forth, while he drew the daggers first form Gaspard’s left sleeve, then his right, throwing them across the room, then starting to work the sash loose from around Gaspard’s waist. It crossed his chest once, but was wrapped multiple times around the waist, he was pleased to discover, a long thin length of silk with fringed ends. Once it was free he leaned forward, rutting against him, crushing their hips together, running his hands up along Gaspard’s sides, along his arms, grasping his wrists and squeezing until he felt the bones grind together. Another whimper escaped Gaspard’s lips, but no words. “Good boy,” he encouraged again, and let go. 

He continued the motion of his thigh as he worked his hand under Gaspard’s chest, undoing the buttons on his coat and yanking hard, drawing it down off his shoulders, pulling his arms down sharply. The shirt underneath was silk and he took a moment to appreciate the feel of it under his hands, tracing up and down along Gaspard’s spine before he tugged it up and around his head. He left it there, arms tangled in the silk above Gaspard’s head, covering his face as he twisted the fabric in his hand and reached underneath Gaspard again, finding a nipple. Gaspard moaned as he rubbed the nub between his fingers, then whimpered and gasped as he pinched, the sounds muffled by cloth. 

“So docile,” he murmured, and gave an especially hard twist, chuckling as Gaspard jerked, struggling in his grip, then gasping again as Malcolm ground into him, pressing him harder into the table edge. His breath had grown ragged, and he pushed back into Malcolm, rubbing against the hardness there. Malcolm felt his pulse quickening and allowed it for a few seconds, then squeezed again and said, “Be still.” Gaspard bucked against him once in reaction, then stilled. “That’s a good Emperor,” Malcolm cooed, and let his hand travel downwards, reaching around and cupping Gaspard. He rubbed his hand up and down his length through the fabric, squeezed again and let go. “Don’t move,” he instructed, and he stripped Gaspard’s shirt the rest of the way off, then bent down, retrieving the sash from where he’d dropped it.

He grasped first one hand, then the other, twisting them behind Gaspard’s back and tying them in place with the sash, then passing it once around his neck before tying it off. He cinched it just enough that Gaspard would have to work to keep his arms up or risk choking himself. When Gaspard realized what he was doing he began to struggle, forcing Malcolm to wrestle with him for the first few passes of silk. He remained silent, however, making no vocal protests, and moaning again as the silk tightened.

Once he was bound, Malcolm started working on the fastenings of his trousers. When he freed Gaspard’s member from its constraints, it jumped beneath his hand, and when he palmed it he found the tip slick with fluid. He worked the slit with his thumb and pulled back on the sash, tightening it around Gaspard’s throat, constraining his air but not cutting it off completely. Gaspard whined, high and desperate, as Malcolm fondled his length, stroking up and down and swiping the tip, tightening and releasing his grip on the sash at random intervals.

“So eager. So hot.” He toyed with the tip, slicking his fingers with Gaspard’s fluids, then letting go with a final pump.

“Don’t …” Gaspard started to say, then stopped himself.

“Tsk, tsk,” Malcolm scolded him, wrenching his arms up painfully, and Gaspard hissed, but remained silent.

“I’d bet you were going to say ‘Don’t stop.’ Nod if I’m right?”

Gaspard’s cheek scraped against the table as he bobbed his head up and down.

“Oh, Gaspard, don’t you worry. We’re just changing things up a bit.” With that, he tugged his trousers down, running his slick fingers over Gaspard’s cleft, and was rewarded with a muffled curse, cut off instantly. He stroked across Gaspard’s hole, circling it and then massaging it, letting the tip just sink in, then back to circling.

“You do have oil available? I hope so, for your sake,” he said as he worked his finger in to the first knuckle. The slick had dried quickly, and he knew the penetration would burn. Gaspard nodded again, gasping as Malcolm rotated his finger ever so slightly.

“Tell me where it is,” he said.

“In the stand by the bed. The top drawer.”

He gave one final twist and withdrew. “Don’t move,” he instructed, and went to investigate.

The drawer was full of interesting things. There were various toys that made him shake his head, as well as several glass bottles of oils and some healing poultices and salves. That was promising. He gathered the bottles and brought them back, setting them on the table in Gaspard’s view.

“What is in each of these?”

“The golden vial is unscented oil. The blue is infused with sandalwood. It and the red one are for massage. The red one has … warming properties.”

Malcolm popped the cork on the golden glass vial and poured some out, smoothing it over his fingers. Gaspard watched him, eyes glued to his fingers, swallowing audibly. As Malcolm worked the oil into his cleft, sinking his finger in ever so slowly, he made a guttural sound, almost distinguishable as words. His breathing grew ragged, gasps and pants as eyes shut, head thrown back Malcolm worked him open, thrusting and twisting.

“Don’t tell me no one’s ever done this to you before? No one’s ever penetrated you, worked their fingers in deep?” He pulled out, then back in, adding a second finger, eliciting a moan from the man pinned beneath him. “Don’t tell me no one’s ever dared to bend you over and fuck you till your throat’s raw from screaming?” He leaned forward, teasing the short hairs at the back of Gaspard’s neck with breath and lips, gentle in contrast to the rough motions. He curled his fingers, scraping as he withdrew and Gaspard spasmed beneath him. “Ah, there it is,” Malcolm purred, hitting the pleasure spot again, making Gaspard writhe. It took very little time to reduce him to a sobbing mess, coaxing him just to the edge and then stopping, withdrawing his fingers and stilling his hips with a firm grasp.

“Don’t …” Gaspard began and then caught himself.

Malcolm tsk’d, and then chuckled. “Again with the don’t? Don’t what? Is there something you wanted to say?”

“Don’t stop,” Gaspard begged. When no response was forthcoming, he added “Please?”

Malcolm stepped back. “Well, you beg so prettily, but you did speak without permission again. So you're going to have to convince me,” he said.

It took Gaspard a few moments to collect himself enough to question. “Convince you? How?”

“Stand up,” Malcolm said. He watched Gaspard struggle, forcing himself upright without the use of his hands. After he had managed to lever himself up, Malcolm said “Turn around.” When he did, Malcolm undid his trousers, freeing himself and taking himself in hand. “Convince me,” he repeated, gesturing to his member. Gaspard hesitated, and he gestured, pointing to the floor in front of him. 

Gaspard tottered awkwardly, his trousers caught halfway down his thighs. His face was flushed, need warring with embarrassment. He tried to kneel and ended up falling hard, knees hitting the floor with bruising force. He’d misjudged his distance, too, so was forced to shuffle forward awkwardly, face flaming even redder. He hesitated, looking up at Malcolm, down at his member, and then back up again, jerking back slightly when Malcolm rubbed against his cheek, smearing his face with precum.

“None of that now,” Malcolm scolded, grasping the back of Gaspard’s head and pushing against his lips until they parted. He felt a tentative touch of tongue and hummed in encouragement. It was obvious Gaspard was unpracticed in pleasuring others, his movements tentative, and he choked when he’d barely swallowed half of Malcolm’s length.

“You’ve always taken, haven’t you?” Malcolm asked. “Always had others cater to you, and they’ve been eager to do so, I’m sure. So noble, so privileged. Everyone always fawning over you, willing to do anything for you, let you do anything to them.” He gripped Gaspard’s head, holding it still, working his way in and out, fucking his mouth slowly, pushing further in a bit at a time, testing his gag reflex with each thrust. Tears gathered in the corners of Gaspard’s eyes, spilling over as Malcolm tightened his grip at the base of his skull. He looked bewildered, surprised, and Malcolm remembered that feeling well, from his first few weeks with Bull, not quite understanding what he was doing and what was being done to him, but wanting to please so much and realizing how much he craved what Bull was offering.

“Such a good Emperor,” he crooned as he hit the back of Gaspard’s throat, feeling his mouth constrict around him with a swallow. His own breathing had grown a bit ragged, the hot wet caresses surging through him. He picked up his pace, keeping his thrusts shallow, and the tears spilled over, running down Gaspard’s cheeks as his nostrils flared, desperate for air.

He’d been in this position so often of late, choking down Bull’s massive member that he’d almost forgotten what it was like to have this power, receiving only as a reward, with no control of his own over his pleasure. It caused another surge low in his belly, and with reluctance he pulled Gaspard off. This wouldn’t be over for the new Emperor, not this quickly.

“So good,” he repeated, wiping the tears away with his thumbs. Gaspard shuddered at the gentle caress, breath hitching, an almost-sob escaping his lips. He waited until Gaspard had relaxed, his breath had evened out, circling, fingers trailing along his jaw and down to his shoulders, and when he sunk back on his heels, head hanging, Malcolm grabbed his bound arms and the sash just below his neck and yanked, pulling him upright. He used the momentum to spin Gaspard and slam him back into the table, wrenching his arms up painfully and pushing him forward, cheek pressed into the wood. Gaspard gave a strangled yelp and fought back, thrashing, but with no avail, bound and half choked, hampered by the trousers that were now tangling his legs at the knee.

Malcolm rubbed his member against Gaspard’s cleft, still slick with oil. “Oh, so there is some fight in you? Go ahead and struggle. Try to break free.” The bottle of oil, which he’d neglected to recork, toppled over, spilling its contents across the tabletop. He planting an elbow across Gaspard’s bound forearms and leaned in, catching the spreading oil before it reached them, coating his hand in the process. He stroked his member, the oil satin smooth against his skin, probing Gaspard’s hole with the tip as he worked the oil up and down his length. Satisfied, he began to push himself in, eliciting a pained whine.

“I didn’t stretch you quite enough, did I?” he asked as Gaspard stilled beneath him. He pushed past the tight ring and watched the play of muscles across Gaspard’s neck and back, the sweat breaking out on his brow, the grimace as he hissed an almost intelligible curse through clenched teeth. “I’d wager you’ve given this burn to countless partners, drank in their cries as you sated yourself.” He pushed himself fully in, a fraction of an inch at a time, letting up the pressure on Gaspard’s arms as he did so, instead caressing arms, back, neck, gentle petting as he murmured words of encouragement. “Look at you. You’re doing so well, taking it all. Such a good Emperor you are. You're never going to be this tight for anyone else.” When he was fully seated he paused for a moment, rolling his hips, then withdrawing. After a few slow thrusts Gaspard began to relax, started moving with the strokes, back arching as he pushed back. Malcolm wrapped his hands in the silk, tightening the pressure around Gaspard's neck as he increased the pace of his thrusts.

“What would your subjects think?” he asked. “What would they whisper behind their masks, if they knew you let me mount you like a mabari bitch in heat?” He watched Gaspard's eyelid flutter, face in profile, his cheeks growing red as he gasped for air. Bracing his legs he changed the angle of his thrusts and was rewarded with a strangled sob. He eased off on the pressure around Gaspard's neck, releasing the silk and grasping his hips with both hands, driving deep and hard, slamming into him, grazing the pleasure spot with each thrust, working Gaspard into a frenzy, bringing him just to the edge and then stopping, pressing him into the edge of the table, holding him still despite his efforts.

"Oh, no, we're not going to be done that quickly," Malcolm said, struggling with himself to keep his voice even. To this, too, he had become unaccustomed, being most often on the receiving end of Bull's attentions for so many months. Leaning down, he skimmed his fingers up and down along Gaspard's spine through the silk, raising goosebumps and causing small shudders as he rocked their hips together, gentle movements, as he waited for both their breathing to steady. His control returned more quickly, and he began to tease Gaspard, reaching around and playing with him, delicate caresses of member and sac with fingers still slick with oil, tormenting him with leisurely thrusts. He continued in this fashion until Gaspard was crying in frustration, curses and pleas tumbling from his lips, feeling his own pressure and need continue to build as well. Finally it became too much for him and he gave in, slamming hard into Gaspard, stroking him to completion as he yanked hard at the silk, completely cutting off Gaspard's air as the emperor spent himself into his hand, coming himself as Gaspard writhed and moaned beneath him. 

He just stopped himself from putting his arm down in the spilled oil as he collapsed, shifting to the side and propping himself up on one elbow as he withdrew. As he released his grasp on the sash, Gaspard drew in air in wheezing gasps. Once he was sure his legs would were working properly, Malcolm began the work of releasing his arms, but the knots had tightened too much, and he was forced to retrieve one of Gaspard's daggers and cut the fabric. Once unbound, Gaspard let his arms fall to his sides, wincing as Malcolm massaged his shoulders. 

Retrieving the healing salve from the endtable drawer, Malcolm rubbed it first into Gaspard's shoulders, that he'd wrenched so many times, then rubbed it into the red marks around his neck, and lastly applied some inside, just a touch to heal the worst of the soreness he must have caused. As Gaspard sighed in relief at the soothing touch, he withdrew his fingers, reaching for the red glass bottle. Letting a few drops fall onto his fingers, he spread the warming oil inside, watching as the beginnings of heat registered. "Just a little something to remember me by," he murmured as Gaspard tried to squirm away from the sensation. 

It took almost no time for Malcolm to straighten himself. He'd managed to avoid both oil and bodily fluids, his uniform slightly rumpled but unstained. Gaspard was another matter. Oil had spilled onto the floor, however, soiling his shirt, and his sash was now in pieces, and would have been creased beyond saving for the evening besides. They found a replacement, and Malcolm wondered what rumors the change in colors would generate.

Gaspard needed help dressing, his legs shaky and his mind still fogged. Malcolm watched him try to put himself back together as they went, pieces of the Grand Duke falling back into place. He was almost recovered when Malcolm retrieved his mask from where he'd tossed it. He pressed it into place, reaching around to fasten the ties, not allowing their bodies to touch except where his fingers brushed the back of Gaspard's head. 

"Shall we?" he said, gesturing to the door, and allowed Gaspard to lead the way from his rooms.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He found Bull on one of the balconies, leaning on the rail, horns bobbing just slightly in time to the music. He slipped up beside him, insinuating himself in under one of Bull’s arms.

“You took it easy on him. He’s hardly limping,” Bull observed, shifting so Malcolm was enfolded in his embrace.

"No, just a generous application of healing salve afterward. Otherwise I don't think he'd be walking."

Bull grunted in approval, nuzzling at his neck.

"Don't you want details?"

"Not here, not now. Tonight, when we're alone in our rooms, though? You're going to tell me every single thing you did, in detail. And I'm going to do it all to you."

If Bull hadn't been holding him upright, he'd have needed to grab the railing for support, the way his knees went weak at the growl in Bull's voice. As he sagged backwards into Bull's embrace, the qunari chuckled, breath warm in his ear. "Yeah, that's what I'm talking about."

They stood in silence for a few minutes, listening to the murmur of conversation behind them. Finally Malcolm stirred. "I need to go back, press a few palms, smile at a few more of the right people. At least the pinches have stopped, now that they think the Emperor has staked his claim."

Bull chuckled. "They can go ahead and think that all they want. I know you've ruined him.

Malcolm turned to look up at him. "Ruined him? How?" he asked.

"Who do you think he's going to find that can do for him what you just did? Even with Celene's defeat the Game will still go on. He's got a taste for it now, but he's not going to be able to trust anyone to do it for him. Anyone could be a spy, a potential assassin. So he'll go back to what he's always done, being in charge, dominating his partners, and it's not going to be enough anymore."

Malcolm considered this.

"That's diabolical, Bull."

"Yeah, well he shouldn't have assumed."

Malcolm squirmed in Bull's arms until he was facing him, looking up into his face. "I hope I never really make you jealous, then."

"Let's not find out."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

**Epilogue**

Several months later, as they were finishing up a session at the war table, Leliana spoke up. “By the way, we’ve received some interesting reports about Gaspard. It seems he’s developed a taste for beautiful young blond men.” She paused. “There have been reports of … injuries.”

“Would those injuries be to the young blond men, or to Gaspard?” Malcolm asked.

Both of Josephine’s eyebrows shot up, and Cullen coughed, blushing bright crimson.

Leliana didn’t answer, but he read the answer in her eyes.

“Have you determined whether these men are willing participants, or do you think they are being coerced?”

“We haven’t been able to ascertain this. There have only been two, and they have both been unwilling to share any information about what they have experienced.”

“I see. Well then. Could you please ask Briala to deliver a personal message to our dear Emperor?”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Gaspard finally had the crown that had been stolen from him so many years ago, but he was already wondering if it was worth the price he’d paid to achieve it. It wasn't entirely his, after all. Briala had already developed subtle ways to remind him that he was not truly in control. One of those ways was to interrupt him when he took a cup of tea on his balcony in the afternoon. He sighed as he heard her approaching.

“What is it now, woman?” he asked, irritated.

She came forward, stood next to him, leaning her elbows on the railing. “I was asked to deliver a personal message to you from the Inquisitor.”

He tried to remain impassive, but just the mention of his man made his breath quicken and parts of his body tighten. She wasn’t watching him, though, thank goodness, just staring out at the gardens below. He waited, but she remained silent.

“Well, out with it!” he snapped.

She sighed. “Certain of your recent … activities have drawn his attention, it seems. I was asked to convey his wishes that your latest partners have been accorded the … respect he showed you. He said that if he discovers otherwise, he will be, how did the messenger put it? Ah, yes. He will be very cross with you.”

Gaspard swallowed hard as Briala looked directly at him for the first time since she had started speaking. He’d been aiming for jealousy, trying to tempt the Inquisitor back, but realized now that he might have miscalculated how this Game was being played.

“Please assure our dear Inquisitor that he has no worries on this regard.” The men had been well-paid, and had agreed beforehand, after all. He didn’t have anything to worry about, did he? He was starting to sweat, damnit.

“I’ll convey your message. Enjoy your tea, Emperor.” Briala gave him a shallow bow and retreated.

He could still relive every moment of that night vividly. The Inquisitor had been only annoyed with him and his presumptions that evening, he thought. Imagining what it would be like if he was angry caused equal parts fear and desire. His thoughts were interrupted by a rattling noise, and it took him several moments to realize that it was coming from his teacup, rattling against its saucer. Raising the cup he drained its contents, not noticing it had grown cold.

**Author's Note:**

> What started out as a simple "what if" turned into a monster. I actually started writing this in July and have been pecking away at it for over three months now. Can't believe I finally finished it!
> 
> Feel free to come say hi over on [tumblr](http://thewightknight.tumblr.com/).


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